Daliances
by sixpetalpoppy
Summary: A series of oneshots revolving around Queen Anne and Aramis' relationship - currently Daliances, Wildflowers & Gossip.
1. Daliances

Disclaimer: I hold no rights to anything Musketeer and I'm certainly not Dumas because that isn't actually possible.

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><p>To say the Queen was covert in her affections, thought Aramis, was an understatement. He couldn't begrudge her it though, nor did he discourage it (save in the fleeting moments where he cursed his loyalty to his King). The Queen had a role to play, she was to bear Louis an heir and secure the future of France, and thus Aramis was unable to resent the infrequency of her warmth.<p>

In the rare moments during the later years of their courtship, when he was tangled in her soft sheets and watching her sleep peacefully, he would wonder whether the secrecy and betrayal of her husband (whom she did not love and had made no secret of it) was the foundation for their relations. If it were, he tried his hardest to find no fault in it. So she didn't love him? So it was all a matter of lust and carnal pleasure? So be it. These thoughts, these dalliances, were followed by days when he was at his most pious.

In truth he flitted between wanting to submerge himself in the cleansing religion he _did_ love so dearly and throwing himself headfirst into his work as a Musketeer. On days, usually the ones following his Queen's kind embrace, he would desire the religious life, perhaps to cleanse his soul from the sins he so willingly committed. But then there was the adrenaline fuelled days, where he worked in perfect synchrony with Athos and Porthos, his friends that were, in truth, more similar to brothers and whom he could hardly picture leaving.

He was often conflicted such.

It was a Wednesday when the Queen met his cursory glance; he'd been assigned with her wellbeing (a common occurrence, rarely one of note) and, naturally, felt a lot more protective of the royal than the standard Musketeer.

He was on edge (this she knew) it was obvious enough if you knew what to look for. His hand would repeatedly toy with the handle of his sword, reassuring himself that it was there and easy to access; he would adjust his uniform, making sure he was at his smartest (for, though Aramis didn't admit it, being in such high company wasn't first nature and made him somewhat uncomfortable) and his eyes would dart to her with a nervous frequency, lest she damaged herself in the mere moments between his previous surveillance.

Her gaze was frank, an eyebrow raised and there was humour dancing in her eyes – it was an extremely impersonal expression that took Aramis aback immediately. The shock on his face was so obvious that Anne couldn't help but laugh at him (he was offended by this), his pride hurt but his pride would always heal and the day was so dull that any humour to break the monotony was appreciated.

She made her way past him, heading towards her private chamber away from the prying eyes of her maids who of late bored her more often than not. He followed her into the room beyond the door, as she expected and, more importantly, was socially expected by the people on the other side of the door. If her bodyguard didn't follow her then there would be more speculation, Aramis (in this instance) was supposed to be in her private rooms and she allowed an open smile at the irony of it.

"My lady," he begun as he marched towards her once the door was firmly shut. "Why do you mock me?"

She smiled indulgently, her poor love's pride was clearly thoroughly bruised by her mirth, "mock you, Aramis? I did not mock you."

"Then what was that?" he demanded. "Why the wry glances and the open mirth as I follow your husband's order to guard your life?"

"Because, my sweet," she replied as she drew him closer into her arms. He relented easily and she knew all would soon be forgiven. "I know you would guard my life without his invitation and I love you for it."

Aramis, unsurprisingly had no answer for her but, as she pressed herself against him and he began to fumble with the complicated dress he'd grown so adept at relieving her of, it didn't really matter anyway.

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><p>AN: *shrugs* I don't know, this is the first time I've written for a different fandom or something that wasn't my own and it felt weird. If I had a pound for every time I wrote Marauders instead of Musketeers...<p> 


	2. Wildflowers

**Wildflowers**

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><p>Disclaimer: Clearly, I am neither Dumas nor the Almighty BBC, thus I own nothing in relation to the Musketeers.<p>

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><p>It was often said (though only through hushed whispers behind hands and closed doors) that the secrets of the Palace's gardens were many and that one could never know what was around the corner of the well-manicured hedging. Some, in most cases the staff of the large chateau, took the saying as a metaphor: for one rarely could predict the next hurdle thrown at the personnel; noble men and women who visited agreed, though not in in the same context, for they believed that anything was possible in the lavish gardens that were fabled for their spectacle.<p>

The gardens were formal, and the layout mirrored the Chateau Saint-Germain-en-Laye that they lay before. Yet though the garden was (on first glance) regimentally laid out, that didn't stop there from being secret passages and hidden pathways to glades unknown to all but a few – especially around the outskirts. Those few in the know, quite naturally, included Queen Anne.

The first time Aramis met the Queen, out of the official context, it was in one of these secret glades. Her invitation was an obscure one, she had flippantly mentioned (with a quick and pointed look through her lashes) that, wasn't the pathway south of the fountain the perfect place for a quiet walk but that she was, quite understandably, ever afraid that something (or someone, given the rebellious times) would catch her unawares. Despite this it really was a glorious day and wouldn't it be a fine idea to take a walk there later, alone (cue pointed look), for the French women of court frustrated her so.

Her confidant Marie had laughed then, knowing that her Spanish frustrations with the ways of the French still tormented her. The moment had passed so fleetingly that Aramis thought he'd imagined it as he made his way through the gardens, past the fountain and south towards the path and (unknown to him) an overgrown glade filled with wildflowers and an awaiting Queen.

That summer Anne spent many an afternoon hidden from the frowns of Cardinal Richelieu and the hot-and-cold affections of her husband. She found relief in the reprieve that Aramis provided and he found another heart to fall blindly for, damn the consequences. It was lucky, he would muse later, that he was such a curious sort and had followed her to her secret glade; she would, naturally, laugh and dismiss his 'curious' virtue as opportunistic; an allegation that (given his reputation) he really had no defence against.

Initially Anne opposed giving her heart to the Musketeer who looked at her with such rash adoration; she'd already fallen from grace within the French court for her romancing of the Duke of Buckingham. The Duke had been a heady fool in love, idiotic in his passion and blatant in his intentions. She hadn't cared for his affections by the time it had come to head, there was no thrill after the carnal conquest and she'd grown bored and apathetic. Aramis wasn't needy though; he didn't pester her for stolen glances, didn't pull her away to kiss her without her permission and he certainly never felt inclined to profess his love in front of her husband and his chief minister.

On an evening in early August Anne lay in the grass waiting for Aramis, their meetings had become so frequent there now that she rarely needed to actively invite him to the glade; usually it was the first place he'd search for her. Her dress that fanned around her was lighter than usual, a boon of the oppressive heat they were experiencing, and the white was already tinging a greenish brown in places from her happy lolling in the pasture.

It was late in the day when he finally emerged through the gap in the hedge, one they often speculated would soon get patched by some overzealous gardener, and saw her lying there. She could have been asleep if it weren't for the book she held aloft, reading the words with fervour. He couldn't interrupt such a rare moment, for the elation on her face was one he'd seen so infrequently of late. His entrance had disturbed the shrubbery though and, despite his intentions, the Queen immediately noticed his arrival and beckoned him to her side.

"Did you think you could catch me unawares, Aramis?" she asked him with a humour in the lilt of her voice, her mirth was still exotic to his ears despite their month long courtship.

"Never, my lady; but I hoped to watch you at peace for a while," he replied, settling himself on the flattened grass next to her and removing his well-worn boots, a contrast to her rarely sullied finery.

He lay out on his back after shedding his coat and sword (though he kept it close to hand lest trouble befell them), the sky was still quite blue and clear of clouds, an orange tinge to the horizon was the only mark of the coming evening, despite the hour. "Marie told me you have been hiding, your majesty," he told her, a clear statement rather than a question; Aramis had already made his disapproval of her removing herself from Court clear and her confidant Marie often voiced a similar concern to him.

She huffed somewhat petulantly and it was in that moment he was reminded that, really, she was still just a girl. Her childhood robbed from her by her early marriage she often behaved childlike in moments of chastisement. She sat up and offered him a glare, "really, Aramis, the pair of you conspire like old Nuns."

He rolled his eyes, a move he wouldn't have dared a mere week before, and sat up to join her, pushing the hand not propping him up into her loose dark hair so he could pull her face closer and with his forehead against hers he asked, "do we conspire against you or do we love you enough to try and spare you a reputation?"

"A reputation?" she asked, before pressing her lips against his firmly; she kissed him with humour, passionate though it was, she felt spurned by his 'concern' to inspire a contradiction in his behaviour. It wasn't long before he pushed her back into the thoroughly flattened grass and rolled onto her, briefly admiring the brown fan of hair mixed with the light blues, purples and reds of the wildflowers that acted as a halo.

"Yes, my Queen," he replied, appreciating the irony with a laugh. "You should avoid a reputation," he murmured as he pressed a kiss to her flushed cheek before pulling his face back a few inches, "lest Richelieu or your husband," he nudging her nose with his as he passed over it to kiss her other cheek, before pulling away again, "begin to suspect-"

"Suspect?" she laughed, taking his face between her two hands and caressing his own cheeks lightly with her thumbs. "My heart, if, after ten years of disgruntled marriage, my husband hasn't suspected any affection I have lies elsewhere then France is in more trouble than one could ever _suspect_." She pulled him closer for a deeper kiss and he knew that, any rational thought he could hold on to would soon be banished by her embrace.

He reluctantly, despite her protestations, pulled back, "your husband is not even half of the worry, Anne," he spoke to her frankly and the tone of his voice was enough to stop the kisses she pressed against his neck with light laughter. "Richelieu, if the Cardinal even thinks you are cavorting with one of the Musketeers, there will be a whole world of trouble for the two of us."

She looked at him appraisingly, "and the Musketeers; de Tréville, Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan, they could all suffer for our infidelity, Aramis. Are you prepared to risk the employ and livelihood of your friends for, what," she scoffed dismissively, "a roll in the grass with a pretty woman? Surely you can do better, you _know_ better, than that?"

"I do," he conceded, disliking the turn the conversation had taken but aware of the importance anyway. "Yet I cannot find it in myself to care and it shames me," she was about to protest but he carried on, "I know nothing can come of this, I know that I am risking more than my life is worth, but know this, my Queen: I love you. I love you as a monarch, of course, but I love your ferocity and your passion. The fact that your… your life is so wasted on your husband (a man that, though I call him King, I find feeble in his affections and rule) hurts me so, I cannot bring myself to _not_ love you in the ways that I should not. So, if you'll have me (and I hope you will), I will continue to come to this glade with you, my heart, and I will love you in ways I promise your husband will never."

Tears danced in the corners of her eyes as he finished his confession and he knew he'd placated any fears she'd continued to harbour. "I, I will go to Court, Aramis," she told him. "But know that I go for you, I suffer the fools for your friends, for your love, for your life."

He couldn't help it, he beamed down at her. Somehow, and unsurprisingly, Anne was beyond all he'd ever imagined her to be (not that he had often allowed himself such treasonous fantasies before he was welcome in her embrace), "you promise more than I'd ever ask, Anne."

Anne smiled, it was a small smile that she rarely offered him in private but it said so much: it was indulgent of his love for her, understanding of his ways – a smile that said quite clearly that she understood every minute detail and it pleased her. It was a Queen's smile.

The conversation had turned more serious than either had predicted and, in the now setting sun, aware of the late hour and the hastening need to return to the chateau lest they be missed, they embraced once more. It was passionate as ever but more caring than either had experienced before, certainly more tender and loving than Anne had ever known. Later that night, as she ritually fucked the frigid husband who cared so little, she would remember every touch of Aramis with her Queen's smile and feel so warm and loved despite the oppressive thrusts of her husband above her.

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><p>A.N. Good god this is the fluffiest thing I've ever written. Daliances has become a series of oneshots – although I'm certainly considering a multichapter eventually. The feedback I've had for Daliances has been lovely and the reviews so kind! Ghostwriter84 and DeathFrisbee221 - you made me blush!<br>I've not actually managed to see episode three yet, as much as it pains me, no internet or tv signal but I'm working on it.  
>I feel like I need to mention that my French history is painfully lacking, the English curriculum is seriously lacking and, to be fair, I'm 23 now and would have forgotten it all anyway. I'm certainly not going to even venture into a multichapter without a better contextual knowledge of the period.<p> 


	3. Gossip

Disclaimer: I am not the ghost of Dumas, nor do I work for the Beeb, thus I own nothing Musketeers related. What a shame...

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><p>When Athos heard the talk in the bastion he immediately felt, a sinking feeling in his gut. Such speculation wasn't new, of course, but this time the ideas and 'facts' rung a little too close to home. The thing was that men, or specifically Musketeers, were quite inclined to gossip when surrounded by other men of a similar disposition. And Musketeers always were of a similar disposition, to an extent. Gaudy or drunk, cavalier or pious, these didn't matter; for all Musketeers, at the end of the day, loved a good fight and that brought them together like brothers. Brothers with very, very loose tongues.<p>

Word in the guardroom was that the Queen had found herself another consort and this time the lucky (or unlucky depending on your viewpoint) devil was a Musketeer. That was knowledge that would feed the gossip mill for days.

Athos had made a point of sitting to listen to the speculation and, long after his shift had ended, he heard tell that the man who'd charmed the Queen had offered his life to her protection, would wander the gardens with her, read with her, laugh with her confidant and provide her with the good seeing too her husband neglected to provide. And it all sounded a little bit too much like Aramis.

That evening he went back to the lodging he shared with Porthos and Aramis; while the three of them sat at the table, drinking beer and eating a stew that Porthos had concocted (made from a meat nobody felt inclined to give too much attention) Athos continued to think. And watch.

He thought and he watched and he stared at Aramis long and hard and he didn't like the conclusions his mind was drawing. There was a smile on his friend's face, (this wasn't something to query on its own) but his hair was cleaner than usual, his beard finely trimmed and there was this horribly embarrassing wistful expression that kept making an appearance on his face. The man looked, if Athos didn't know any better, stupid enough to be in love.

"Rumour has it," he said loudly causing Porthos and Aramis to look at him with a jolt; he'd been quiet all evening and his sudden proclamation startled them. "That a Musketeer is currently enamoured with our beloved Queen."

Porthos immediately laughed loudly and deeply, "what fool would set himself up for that kind of misery?" he asked laughing. Athos agreed wholeheartedly with his friend but his eyes were watching Aramis' expression which had become, if possible, even more absorbed by (of all things) the bible in his hands. He was clearly exercising his contrariness and having a pious evening, this would suit Athos well.

"Quite right, Porthos!" he said, making a show of agreeing with him to Aramis who pointedly focused on his book. "When I heard the news myself I thought, 'a musketeer having an affair with the Queen? Who would be _that_ stupid?' My first thought was, naturally, d'Artagnan," he paused to allow for Porthos' uproar of laughed, taking in the relieved expression on Aramis' face.  
>"But then I realised even he was more morally driven than to let himself fall into <em>that<em> bed," Athos watched with satisfaction as Aramis paled. "And then I thought of _you_, Aramis. You, who could charm your way into any bed in France if you thought to, and who, more importantly, have less scruples than half the whores in Paris!" he exclaimed at his friend, slapping him around the head with his glove and watching with satisfaction as he had the decency to look embarrassed. "How could you be so _stupid_?!" he demanded.

Aramis' face was apologetic as he looked to Athos, ignoring the mirth of Porthos who had now collapsed into a fit or roaring laughter. "I love her, friend."

Porthos sighed loudly and dramatically and poured Athos another ale, clearly thinking (and quite rightly) that his friend would need it. "Spare me from fools in love!" Athos cried, exasperated with the foolishness of his friend.

Aramis looked defensive for he had never asked Athos to get involved. "I never asked-"

"No!" Athos interrupted and hissed at Aramis, "but now I know, and my choice is thus: be loyal to the King who rules me or loyal to the friend whose treason could have us all killed!"

Aramis looked understanding in a way that Athos and Porthos had always hated, they called it his 'theological expression' and he always seemed to pull it out when they least wanted it. In truth it wasn't synonymous with theology but it was synonymous with him displaying a level of understanding that tended to make them uncomfortable. "And I thank you for your decision, friend," he told Athos and reached across to pat him on the hand.

Athos looked bemused, unable to determine how Aramis had already, rightly, guessed his own conclusion. His confusion must have been apparent as Aramis soon explained with a knowing smile, "You would not have come here if you had not already made your choice, Athos."

Athos, disbelieving Aramis' blatant audacity in the face of the situation smacked him around the head again, for lack of a better response. "Don't make me regret it then, Aramis," he replied, satisfied when Aramis rubbed his skull in pain.

Porthos was amused as he watched the two of them drunkenly from the opposite side of the table; the conclusion was one that he distantly agreed with, though he didn't have all of his wits about him to make the decision himself. The exchange of blows, threats and promises had passed and the two had shaken hands and poured each other another mug of ale – as a way of expression each other's gratitude. Now the two acted as if the exchange hadn't happened at all, "all for one and one for all," Porthos muttered as he poured himself too another drink.

"What?" asked Athos, bewildered in the face of the crass line his friend had muttered to himself so drunkenly.

"All for one, and one for all, Athos," he replied slowing the slurred words as if it would make them more coherent.

Aramis set down his mug and asked, with ardent curiosity, "what happened to every man for himself?"

"Well," Porthos began, leaning on the table between them and pausing only to take another mouthful of liquor. "I realised it was very selfish to leave my comrades in the lurch." He appraised their approving expressions for a moment before continuing, "and otherwise, I would miss out on foolish idiocy like this."

Aramis and Athos looked to each other, they couldn't really argue with such inebriated logic, even if it were sound. Athos raised his tankard in resignation, "one for all-"

"And all for one," Aramis concluded for him with a shrug.

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><p>d'Artagnan, of course, was another matter. He was told months later when the dust and the rumour had settled. "What if you get the Queen pregnant," he hissed across the table at the already exasperated Aramis, who made a point of ignoring the smirks of Athos and Porthos.<p>

The look that Aramis sent Athos quite clearly said, 'well, this is why we didn't tell him.' But as a show of camaraderie Athos and Porthos had wanted to let the younger Musketeer in on the secret. Aramis suspected though that Porthos' support of the idea was solely out of amusement and anticipation of whatever irrational display the headstrong, quick to the draw Gascon would come out with.

"Well, someone has to," Porthos told the already scandalised d'Artagnan who gaped at the trio in front of him.

Athos laughed openly, now he had made his peace with the situation he was able to find humour in it much like Porthos, and anyway, Aramis was embarrassed so rarely that it was always an enjoyable exercise to inflict it upon him.

Aramis sighed, glad his other friends had accepted the situation but exasperated with the still somewhat green d'Artagnan. The poor boy still seemed to think that his peers would be honour bound and chivalrous, he'd had a few months of daunting disappointment to get over the worst of it but he was still surprised when something the likes this cropped up (which it did more often than one should expect – although not to this level of gravity). "You aren't helping, Porthos," he muttered darkly, shooting a glare towards the friend that grinned so widely.

"And I don't intend to, Aramis," he shot back with quick wit. "For that would be treason."

As Aramis flung his head to his hands, d'Artagnan looked thoroughly scandalised and Porthos laughed heartily, Athos accepted that this long night would be a memorable one for all four of them and, a turning point in the friendship of the three musketeers and d'Artagnan. With that knowledge in place he made his way to the bar and procured the strongest alcohol he could buy, he knew they'd need it.

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><p>A.N. Thank you for all the reviews, follows, encouragement and such!<p> 


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